Live and Learn
by acaelousqueadcentrum
Summary: Life is full of ups and downs. Small stories of Gail and Holly.
1. Standing Up

Just another Friday night at the Penny.

_Future._

* * *

It's Friday night and the Penny is full of cops celebrating another week's end. The rookies of 15 division are sitting around a table in one of the corners while Chloe reads off a trivia question from her spot on Dov's lap. Andy and Chris are sitting across from you, heads together trying to come up with their answer. And your teammate, your adorable girlfriend Gail, is pretending to whisper answers in your ear but is actually listing off all the things she'll do to you if the two of you can leave the nerdfest and go home right now. Except for the fact that you know the answer and are currently beating the pants off Dov and Chloe, you'd probably forfeit the whole thing and rush her out the door.

But you like winning, and victory sex is one of your favorite kinds of sex. It falls just under sweet and slow wake-up sex actually, which is your absolute favorite. And it's just above birthday sex, which is always fun and celebratory but really only comes twice a year. But victory sex? It's always hot and energetic and just dirty enough to put a self-satisfied smirk on your girlfriend's face the morning after.

And you can have it as many times as you can wipe the floor with Dov and Chloe.

Chloe tallies up the points. With this last question you and Gail—well, you—have definitely secured the win.

Gail cackles at her former roommates. "Team Peckwart for the win," she says excitedly, "thanks for picking up the tab, boys."

You smile into her soft blonde hair—you're definitely getting victory sex tonight.

But not yet, with Dov and Chris covering tonight's drinks, you know Gail's going to want to get a few more rounds in.

An hour or so later, and several drinks, and the cops are gently ribbing Gail for the attention she got earlier this week after helping to save an infant boy who was choking. The alcohol is buzzing pleasantly in your veins, and you're so proud of your girl, that you almost miss Dov making a joke about Gail only getting recommended for a commendation because she's a Peck.

You feel every muscle in her body tense against yours, and the warmth in your chest goes cold. That buzz you've been riding for the past few hours slips away.

"Hey," you say to Gail, "we should go, it's getting late and we've got plans tomorrow."

Your plans are to keep Gail in bed as long as possible, and enjoy what appears to be the first obligation-free Saturday the two of you have had in months.

But the rest of the table doesn't need to know that.

You get Gail into her coat and take her outside to wait for the cab before pretending that you've left your wallet inside.

When you get back to the table the four of them are still sitting and talking; no one seems to have noticed how your mood went from happily victorious to angry and defensive in the space of a single heartbeat.

"Hey," Andy says, noticing you standing by the table again, "you come back for one more? Where's Gail?"

You look down at her, at each of them sitting there at the table.

"No, she's outside waiting for a cab," you tell her in a voice that is curt and direct. "But we need to talk."

You know they've never heard you like this before, you know they're all half-drunk and a little confused. But this needs to be said. You need to say this.

Now.

Tonight.

You give them your most "take no shit" stare. It's handy when herding interns and when Gail is being particularly stubborn about something.

"This," you say, gesturing with your hands, "this stops now. This stops tonight."

Four blank faces stare back at you.

"Telling Gail she's not good enough? Telling her that her success is only because of her name? It's done. It doesn't happen again. Do you hear me?"

It's Chris who speaks first, "Holly, we didn't mean anything by it."

"Gail's a good cop, we all know it," Andy chimes in.

"Yes," you say quietly but fiercely, "Gail is a good cop. She's a great cop. She's strong and dedicated and she cares about the people she helps. She saved that boy's life. She cleared his airway and she gave him CPR until the ambulance arrived. She was his heart and she was his breath for seven minutes, and he's alive because of her. He's going to grow up because of Gail. That commendation she's been nominated for? She earned that. She earned it because of what she did. And if she earned it because of who she is it has nothing to do with her name and everything to do with her the person she is. Do you hear me?"

They all have the good sense to look a little ashamed of themselves.

"But you gotta admit," Dov says after a moment, "the fact that she's a Peck means that anything she does gets a bigger spotlight than everyone else."

"Really, Dov?" Your voice is louder now, you can't really control it anymore. You were angry before, but now you're just plain mad. "If the spotlight is brighter, so is the cliff. Do you know what it's like to live with the constant fear of being a disappointment? Do you know the pressure she's had to deal with her whole life? The expectations she feels she has to live up to, the legacy?"

You take a breath and look at the cops sitting before you. None of them can meet your eyes.

"You all should know this, weren't you all there when she took the fall for that suspect's death a few years ago, the one you all played a part in? She had your backs then, have any of you ever had hers?"

You look around at them. It's time to make them see what you see.

"All she's ever wanted is someone to have her back, someone to choose her over everything else. And every time you make her doubt herself, every time you tell her that all the hard work she puts in, all of it isn't her but her name? She knows that at the end of the day, you don't believe in her. So it stops now. You've all worked with her, you've seen her. You know that what she does she does on her own. No more telling her otherwise, do you understand?"

They all nod at you, and then Andy catches sight of something to your side, and you turn.

Gail is standing there. She must have come back at some point during your speech, but you hadn't noticed. You can't read her face to tell whether she's heard or whether she's angry.

"Gail—"Andy tries to speak, but Gail cuts her off.

"Hol, the cab's here. Did you get your wallet?" The hand on your shoulder lets you know she's okay. You still can't tell how much she heard, but at least you know you're not in trouble.

"I did; we were all just saying goodbye again. Shall we go," you ask and she nods. The hand trails down your back to come and rest at the small of your back. You love her casual possessiveness.

The cops at the table murmur their goodbyes, and it pleases you a little to see how ashamed they all look.

In the cab Gail can hardly keep her hands off of you, drawing you into a deep and dark kiss, and then attaching her mouth to the pulse point at the base of your throat while her fingers tease at the hem of your shirt.

Once you're standing in the foyer the apartment you share, she attacks you, kicking off her heels and stripping your shirt from your body.

"No one's ever done that for me," she whispers against your skin, "no one's ever cared enough to stand up for me."

She sounds a little surprised that you would, and it breaks your heart.

"Hey," you say, taking her chin in your hand and tilting her head to look up at you, "I will always have your back. I will always stand up for you. Because you are worth it. Because you deserve it. Got it?"

The smile that breaks across her face it beautiful.

"When you say it like that," she says and brings a hand up to your cheek, "I almost believe it."

This beautiful woman, you're so deeply in love with her.

"You should," you tell her, "because it's true. And I will tell you as many times as you need to believe it. I'll spend the rest of your life telling you, because I love you."

She stops breathing, and the hand on your face stills.

"I'm so in love with you, Gail," you say, and draw lips in for a kiss. The touch of lips seems to shock her into breathing again, and it takes a moment for her to respond to your touch.

But then she does, and with gusto, hands greedily seeking skin.

The next morning you realize you're going to have to reorder your list. Because "I love you" sex is your new favorite.

And from the look on your beautiful girl's face the next morning, you're pretty sure it's on the top of Gail's list too.


	2. Bedside Manner

"How do we do this, Oliver," you ask, "how do we just go on after today like nothing's happened?"

_Post-Ford, pre-Blink._

* * *

You sit and wait in the emergency room for what seems like hours before Celery comes out to say that Oliver can have a few visitors now. In reality, it's only forty-five minutes, but it feels like forever. Lifetimes have come to pass in the space of this single, terrible day.

You're actually the second to see him. Frank goes up first. You know Oliver must be mostly okay because when Frank returns twenty minutes later, he's laughing and the somber creases of his forehead have disappeared.

Before you even realize what's happening, you stand and volunteer to go next. Looking around the room, no one seems to disagree. They're all caught up in their private griefs right now. Too lost to pay attention to everything else that's going on.

It doesn't hit you until you're standing in front of the glass window of Oliver's room, that you're still holding Holly's hand. That you grabbed onto her the moment she rushed into the waiting room, and haven't let go of her since. You're not even sure you remember how to exist without her hand in yours, her warmth at your side.

"Hey," she says to you, swinging your joined hands in the space between your bodies. "He's okay, it's just a little head injury."

How can you tell her that it's not Oliver who has you standing still? How can you explain that it's her, that it's been her since the moment she tramped into the shallows of those woods and turned your whole life upside down?

You can't, not now. Not here. So instead you give her hand a squeeze and then slowly, hesitantly, unclasp your fingers from hers.

Somehow, even without her strength, you keep breathing.

"Go on," she says, and gives you a gentle nudge toward the door, "it's okay. I'll just wait out here." The little smile she gives you is safe, the kind that makes you think of simpler, easier lifetimes.

Inside the room, Oliver is laying back against a pile of pillows with his arm over his eyes and his bare toes peeking out from under the sheet that covers him. Celery sits at his bedside holding his other hand, whispering something in his ear before she notices you.

"Hey, Oliver," she says quietly, "Gail's here."

Oliver brings down the arm and squints toward you.

"Peck, and to what do I owe this pleasure?"

Dammit, but you love this man. He's been almost everything a man can be to you-friend, older brother, father figure, mentor. The love you have for him is like a warm fire on a rainy day, or like a hot cup of sweet and milky tea made by mom when you're home sick from school. Comforting.

You can feel the whole of the day rushing back to you, all the fear and worry, the excitement of new love and the fear of judgment, the adrenaline of being shot at, the softness of Holly's lips on your lips and hand in your hand. Pains and tragedies long past-Jerry, Perrick, loneliness, isolation, failed expectations.

"Oh, hey, darling," Oliver says, reaching out to pat your hand, "don't cry. We survived, we're still here."

But you can't help it, you can feel your eyes flood with hot and desperate tears, and you can't stop them from falling.

Oliver looks over toward Celery, who rises and makes some comment about needing to step out. You're glad; it's bad enough that you're breaking down in front of Oliver. You can't break down in front of a stranger too.

"Come here, Peck," he says, and you move closer to him, let him put his arm around your waist and draw you in for an awkwardly-positioned hug. And because it's there, and because the remnants of his cologne remind you of your father's, you drop your head to his shoulder and you let yourself weep while he pats your arm slowly.

It only takes a few minutes for you to calm yourself, but even so, when you lift your head Oliver's gown sports some impressive wet patches. You try to apologize but he nods you off.

"Don't worry about it, Peck, it'll dry. It'll dry. Now," he says, "you want to tell me about that pretty lady in the hallway who's trying very hard not to come in here and make sure you're okay?"

You look over your shoulder to where Holly and Celery stand in the hallway. Oliver's right, Holly does look like she can barely keep herself from crossing the threshold into the room. You catch her eye and give her a nod to let her know that you're okay, and she visibly relaxes.

"That's Holly," you say, not exactly sure how to proceed.

But Oliver remembers. "Oh, your friend from the lab, right? She's nice."

You nod because it's true. She is nice. She's nicer than anyone you know, and not the kind of nice that makes you roll your eyes and say insulting things, like with Chloe. She's the kind of nice that knows just what you need, and how to make you feel like a whole person instead of the broken and jagged pieces you're used to. She's the kind of nice that makes you want to be the kind of person who deserves her attention.

"You look like you've got something on your mind, pal," he says, poking a finger into your forearm, "and it's been too long of a day to let something bother you. So, out with it. What's up?"

You glance back toward Holly in the hall. She's talking with Celery now, but you're not that easily fooled. You can feel the weight of her gaze every few seconds as she glances over into the room to check up on you. She cares about you, she cares about you in a way that you don't think anyone ever has before. She walked into the police department knowing that someone out there was targeting cops from your division, twice, just to make sure you were okay.

She could have been there when Ford was there. If she'd waited to check on you that second time, or you'd been brave enough to tell her to wait, she could have been there, in the crossfire.

The very thought sends a chill down your spine.

"Hey, now," Oliver says, trying to draw you out of the mental minefield you've wandered into, "seriously Gail, tell me what's going on."

"How do we do this, Oliver," you say to him, a hint of desperation in your voice as the words fall out in a jumbled rush, "how do we just go on after today like nothing's happened? I mean, Chloe got shot, and Sam. You were abducted and beaten and used as bait. I kissed Holly in an interview room and then just a few hours later a crazy person with a hit list sneaks into the division. What's going to happen tomorrow? How do we pretend like we're okay after all this?"

"Whoa, whoa," Oliver says, putting his hands up, "slow down, darling, slow down. You've had a long and crazy day. We all have." Oliver's got what you think of as his dad-face on now, firm and paternal. You can't help but relax just a bit seeing it. "But we're cops. So tomorrow, we're going to strap on our gear and our badges and thank our lucky stars that we're still alive and that our friends are still alive. Because so far the only casualty in today's tragedy is Ford. We go on because we have to, because that's our job. We're the line between the light and the dark in people's lives, darling, and sometimes that means that we find ourselves walking in the darkness too. Today? Today was a dark day. "

He looks at you and you nod. Today was indeed a dark day.

"But you know what, Peck? You see that woman out there, Celery? That woman brings the light into my life. So I know that no matter what happens on the dark days, I've got a beautiful light to go home to, someone to chase away all those demons and shadows that I can't shake myself."

Oliver pauses for a moment to take a drink from the Styrofoam cup of ice water on the table next to him, and you can't help but laugh when he flicks cold water from the bendy straw toward you. It almost sounds like normal, you can almost recognize the sound of your laughter in the strange echo of the hospital room.

"Now," he says, "you kissed Holly today, in the interrogation room?"

Nodding, you pick at the black cotton of your sleeve.

"And this is something you liked, that you'd want to do again?"

You roll your eyes at him.

"I'm being serious, Peck. You kissed Holly; I assume she kissed you back, right? And now she's here at the hospital with you waiting to hear if your friends are going to be okay. That's a big deal. You don't let people in easily, Gail, but there she is. Right there." He pauses for a moment before continuing, "Do you like her?"

It takes a moment for you to respond, and when you do your voice is quiet.

"I didn't ... I didn't really realize what was happening at first. I thought we were friends but I think it was always something more. I think maybe there was something right from the start, and I just didn't understand what I was feeling. But the more time we spent together, the more time I wanted to spend with her. And then all of a sudden it hit me, right there in the interrogation room, and I couldn't stop myself from kissing her."

She's out there in the hallway still, you can feel her like you can feel the weight of the gun on your hip or the badge on your chest.

"She came tonight even though I brushed her off, even though I made her feel like I thought the kiss was a mistake, Oliver. What kind of person does that? And now I can't stop thinking about her. I could barely let go of her hand to come in here and even still, I can still feel where mine is empty now. I can feel the space between us. Honestly, it's starting to freak me out a little."

Thinking about it-the kiss earlier, the relief you felt when she rushed toward you in the waiting room, the way her finger drew little circles on your hand while you sat-you can feel your pulse begin to raise.

"Gail, Gail, Gail," Oliver says, "my persnickety Peck, what you're feeling there? Sounds a lot like the beginnings of love to me."

You scoff at him, and he smiles back infuriatingly.

"So, my dear rookie, here's my advice to you. Here's what you're going to do. You let that girl take you home and you let her soothe away everything that happened today. You let her be the light that chases away all the darkness of the past twenty-four hours. We hit a wall today, Peck, so tomorrow we pick up the pieces and we start over. And you know what that means? It means that you get to decide who you want to be in the morning. My advice? Be brave enough to wake up with that gorgeous girl out there, the one who can't keep her eyes off of you. Let yourself be loved, Gail. Stop thinking about what ifs and should haves and take a chance on something beautiful. It's what I'm going to do."

You can feel the tears burning in the corner of your eyes again, but you ignore them as Oliver leans forward like he's going to share a secret.

"You and me, Peck," he says, "we're extraordinarily lucky because those two women out there? For some unfathomable reason they seem to care about us, and I'm not willing to let this chance slip away."

He waves at Celery in the hall, beckoning them both to come in.

"Now introduce me to your girl, rookie," Oliver orders with a smile.

Later, as you leave the hospital, you take Holly's hand back into your own, pleased at how right it feels there.

Oliver's right, you think to yourself. Tomorrow is a whole new day, and you get to define who you want to be in tomorrow's brand new world.

A second chance.

A do-over.

A reset.


	3. Solace

The things you have to live with

_Future_

* * *

It's just the latest in a string of bad days when your boss pokes his head into your office and asks if you have a minute.

You nod and he steps in, bouncing back and forth on his heels.

"We have a rather delicate situation right now, Dr. Stewart, and unfortunately I have to ask you to take a few days of paid leave until everything blows over."

"Come again," you say, having absolutely no idea what Ed's referring to.

"There was an officer-involved-shooting earlier today, and considering your relationship to the officer in question, SIU wants to make sure the investigation is seamless. That means isolating you from the forensic evidence and the autopsy."

You lost track of Ed's words over the sound of your thundering heart.

"Ed, what do you mean, what's going on?" You can't help it, you stand and grip the edge of your desk hard enough to turn your knuckles white.

He fills you in, summarizing from what looks like an email print-out in his hand. "At around thirteen-hundred hours this afternoon, an Officer Gail Peck discharged her weapon at a suspect who had taken a young woman hostage. SIU just notified our department that the suspect was declared dead on-scene, and that we should expect the body shortly. It sounds like their investigation is pretty cut-and-dry, but they don't want any room for future wrongful death suits from the family, so they're making sure all the loose ends are tied up. And because you're in a relationship with Officer Peck, they feel it's for the best if you're put on administrative leave until it's all over. So, as soon as you fill your assistant in on any of your open cases, consider yourself on vacation, okay?"

Your whole body feels frozen in place, and trying to find the words to express the question burning in your throat seems almost impossible.

"Is Gail ... is Officer Peck okay," you ask, almost afraid to hear the answer.

But Ed picks up on the distress in your voice and moves to reassure you, placing a warm hand over your cold one.

"Officer Peck is just fine; sounds like there were only minor injuries to the hostage victim. I probably should have started with that, I guess," he answers sheepishly. You like Ed, but times like this really make you think he chose the right profession. He's one of the best forensic guys you know, but his interpersonal skills often leave something to be desired.

"Okay," you say, able to take a full breath again, "but Ed, you should know, I'm haven't seen or spoken to Gai-to Officer Peck in a couple of weeks. It's not that I wouldn't welcome the surprise vacation, but I'm not sure it's even necessary at this point."

It hurts to think about, but it's true. You haven't seen Gail since that night at the club with your friends. She'd overheard Lisa talking about how a beat cop wasn't good enough for you, and then you stupidly tell your friends that you were just having fun, and walked out of the club without a word, without even looking back.

You'd called, you'd texted, you'd done everything but show up at the 15 and beg her to listen to your explanation, your apology, in front of all her friends and colleagues. And all to no avail. You're pretty sure that as far as Gail is concerned, you're _persona non grata_ right now. All you could do was wait until she decided to let you back in again.

Ed checks the document in his hand again. "Well," he says, "that's not the impression Officer Peck gave the investigating officer from SIU. That's why they contacted me. Either way, Holly, take the time off, get some sun, go someplace."

He claps you on the back, "Why look a gift horse in the mouth, right?"

* * *

It only takes you twenty minutes to pack up the things you're taking home and get your case notes in order for Marissa to take over. Within thirty you've got your laptop and your bag stored in the trunk of your car and are sitting at the exit to the parking lot, trying to decide which direction to point your car in once the gates finish opening.

Turn left and you'll be heading home, to your empty townhouse and your empty fridge and the brand new bottle of bourbon Gail brought over weeks ago to replace your old one.

Turn right and you're headed toward 15 Division, to who knows what. An angry silence. A cold shoulder. Gail.

The gate opens and the sound of the buzzer shock you out of your thoughts.

It was never a choice.

You take the right.

* * *

The 15 is bustling with activity, as usual. Thankfully Oliver sees you in the hall as you enter the building, so you don't have to ask for Gail at the front desk or get buzzed in or anything. Instead, he takes you back into the squad room after asking how you've been.

He brings you a hot cup of tea, and then fills you in on all the details he had; how Andy and Gail had been called to a domestic disturbance earlier that day, and how quickly it had devolved into a hostage situation when the suspect grabbed for a kitchen knife and held it to his pregnant ex-girlfriend's throat.

Gail, Oliver tells you, had done everything right. She'd been first in the door, first to talk to the suspect. She'd tried to talk him down, tried to make a connection with him and find some common ground. But the man's anger and paranoia and quickly fading high were all working against them, and so when he escalated and pressed the knife harder and harder against his captive's skin, Gail had done the only thing she could. She'd taken the open shot and saved a young woman's life.

The woman, Oliver shares, is alive because of Gail. She'd suffered a fairly deep gash on her throat, and would probably be in the hospital for a few days, but both she-Constance-and her unborn child are alive because of Gail. Because Gail pulled the trigger.

"Is she okay, is she here," you ask Oliver, looking around for a familiar blonde head.

"She's not here, darling," Oliver responds, "SIU cut her loose about an hour ago. I didn't see her before she left, but I guess she told Dov she'd see him at home."

Your disappointment must show, because he gives you a pat on the shoulder. "I know things have been rough between you two for the past few weeks, but don't give up on her just yet. Our Gail's a stubborn one, but she cares about you and she misses you and she's just working around to figuring those things out for herself. So if you've got the patience to wait her out, she'll come around in the end."

"I hope you're right," you tell him with a small smile.

Oliver walks you out, and you climb into your car to head home.

But before you put the key in the ignition, you tap out a text to Gail, the first in more than a week. _Heard what happened,_ you write, _and hope you're okay. Call or text if you need someone to talk to._

You're almost positive you won't hear from her tonight, but you can hope.

* * *

It's dark out when your phone rings. The sound cuts through your sharp focus on the unfinished article on your laptop in front of you, and you swipe to accept the call.

"Hello, Holly?" Chris's voice sounds a little odd, like he's got you on speakerphone, and you can feel the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

"Chris, what's up?"

"Hey, we were just wondering, have you heard from Gail today" he asks.

He sounds almost afraid of what your answer will be.

"No," you say, "I haven't talked to her in a couple of weeks, Chris. What's going on? Is she okay? Did something happen after she left the station today?"

"Um, we don't really know. Nobody's seen her since she left the station. Dov thinks she said she'd be at the apartment, but when he got back after shift, she wasn't there. We were hoping that she was with you."

You pull on your boots without bothering to lace them up, and grab your leather jacket from the closet by the front door.

"Where are you," you ask Chris, unlocking your car.

"We're at the apartment, me and Dov, I mean," he says, "but we're going to head out and see if we can find her. Traci and Steve and Oliver are trying to track her down. Dov's gonna go to the Penny and I'm-"

You cut him off as you pull out of the drive.

"I'm on my way to the apartment now, wait until I get there, okay?"

He agrees, and you disconnect the call. And then you call Gail's phone, praying that she'll answer. But it goes straight to voicemail.

You don't even try to disguise the fear in your voice as you leave a message begging her to call you, to call Oliver, Traci, Chris, somebody. "Please, baby, we're all a little worried about you," you plead.

You're scared. Because you remember the night after Kevin Ford, when Gail sat on the floor of your bathroom with her hair in chunks on the floor and a bottle of bourbon in her hands. Because you remember the look in her eyes when she realized what she'd done. You wish you could go back weeks in time, to that night when she walked away from you in the dark club, hurt flashing in her eyes. If you had stopped her, if you had made her listen to your apology that night or in the days after, maybe she would have called you today. Maybe she'd be drunk and in a rage, maybe she'd be sad and mourning the morning's events, but she'd be with you, someplace where you could watch over her and keep her safe.

When your phone rings, you answer without bothering to check the ID.

"Holly?"

Your heart drops when the voice on the other end of the line isn't Gail but Lisa instead.

"Lisa, I can't talk. There's something going on with Gail and I need to keep my phone open. I'll call you ba-"

But Lisa doesn't let you finish. "Hol," she says, "that's what I'm calling about. Gail's here, at the club. According to the Sal at the bar she's been here for hours. She ... she looks like she could use a friend, Holly."

You could cry with relief.

"Listen, Lisa, I need you to keep an eye on her. I'm on my way right now. Don't let her leave, okay? Promise me, Lisa."

She agrees, and you can tell that she's unnerved by your forceful tone. "We'll be here waiting for you, Hol."

You make a semi-legal U-turn as you direct your phone to dial Chris's number.

* * *

The club is full of women when you rush through the doors, a heavy bass beat pounding above the din of voices. But Lisa had sent you a text telling you where to find Gail, and so you push past bodies on your way toward a booth in the back corner. There in the dim light, you see a flash of pale blonde.

The vice your heart has been caught in ever since you answered Chris's call loosens a bit. She's here. She's okay. You can breathe again.

You send out a quick text to everyone who has been looking for her, letting them know that you've laid eyes on her.

And then you move toward the booth.

Gail is sitting there in a pair of black tactical pants and a black cotton t-shirt. It makes her skin look almost translucent. You can tell from the set of her spine, the loose way her head lolls as she takes a drink from a bottle of water, she's far past drunk. But you're glad to see that she's drinking water at the moment, and that someone, probably Lisa, who is sitting with Gail in the booth, has ordered something for her to eat.

"Gail," Lisa says, "look, Holly's here."

"Holly," Gail says and sighs, eyes glazed over with liquor and a deep inner pain, "you came."

You slip into the booth, scooting over until you can feel the warmth she gives off.

"I tried to call you but I don't know where my phone is," she tells you.

"It's okay, I'm here now," you tell her, and press the bottle of water into her hand, hoping she'll drink some more, "here, drink some more of this, Gail." The blonde is almost frighteningly pliable. As she gulps down the cold water, you catch Lisa's eye.

Your long-time friend has the good sense to look sorry as her eyes track back and forth between you and Gail. "It quickly became clear she was working her way toward acute alcohol poisoning. I wanted to get some food and water into her," Lisa says. "Sal said she'd been drinking pretty steadily since she got here, but she's got at least half an order of cheese fries and two bottles of water in her stomach now. So hopefully that'll help soak up the alcohol."

"What did she say to you when you sat down," you ask, curious if Gail had told Lisa what had happened.

Gail is busy peeling the label off of one of the empty water bottles in front of her, not paying attention to the two of you at all.

"Honestly," Lisa says, "when I first ran into her she called me a couple of names and made some comment about my hair. But when I realized that something was wrong after seeing her again, it was because she told me I was right, that she wasn't good enough for you. That's when I called you. She's spent the last forty-five minutes talking about you, you know. Non-stop. If I have to hear how awesome you are or how your shampoo smells like oranges and sunshine any more, Hol, I'm going to need something stronger than this bottle of water here."

She takes your hand in her own, "I'm sorry, you know, for what I said. And for the trouble it caused between the two of you."

"I know you are," you tell her, and look over at Gail, who's finished her bottle of water and put her head down on the table, "but you're probably going to have to say it again when she's sober."

"I will," your friend says, and gives Gail a sympathetic look.

You rub your hand along Gail's arm to keep her from falling asleep. "Hey," you say gently, "Gail, we should get you out of here, you look like you could use some sleep, okay?"

She raises an eyebrow, and the blue of her eyes reminds you of early summer mornings in July.

"Okay."

She lets you and Lisa help her out of the booth and to the restroom before the three of you walk out to your car in the parking lot. You buckle her into the passenger seat and close the door before turning to Lisa.

"Look," you say, "she probably won't remember anything that happened tonight, but you and I will. So here's what you need to know. That woman in there? She's brave and noble, and if you're small or weak or vulnerable, if you have no one to fight for you? She'll do anything she can to save you. She's the person you want in your corner, because if you're lucky enough to be welcomed into her orbit? You won't ever regret it. Not even when she's silent and not talking to you or when she's drunk and yelling at you."

"I get it," Lisa says, "I made a snap judgment and I was wrong."

"It's not just that, Lis," you tell her. "If there's someone who's not good enough? It's me. I'm not good enough for her. I could never be good enough for her. Because she's the kind of person who will sacrifice everything, up to and including herself, for someone else, Lisa. She's stronger and braver than I could ever be."

Lisa looks at you with an odd expression on her face.

"What happened today, Holly," she asks.

"Gail saved someone's life-two lives, actually. But in order to do that, she had to take one." You pull the collar of your jacket, thinking about the choice Gail had to make today leaves you cold.

"Christ," Lisa says.

You agree.

* * *

You manage to get her into your house and upstairs into the bathroom before she sobers up enough to remember why she's put herself in such a state. You sit her on the lowered seat of the toilet, and she lets you gently strip her out of her borrowed clothes. You can't help but flash back to that night, weeks ago, when the two of you were in a similar position.

She'd laughed as the cold water hit the back of her newly bare neck, and the remnants of her impromptu haircut swirled around the drain. You'd let the cold water sober you both up a bit, and enjoyed the feel of her lips against yours as the water heated up. Slowly the two of you stripped each other of your wet clothes, letting the last burn of the bourbon chase away any fear or embarrassment or shyness either of you might have felt as you explored each other's bodies for the first time.

Your memories of that night are sweet and warm. Tinged with the darkness of the day's events, yes, but altogether happy.

Tonight won't be like that, you know. There's a rift between the two of you, not to mention the brand new scar that mars Gail's psyche. But still, she trusts you enough to stand before you, naked and bare, while you fill the tub with warm water and a soothing lavender bath oil. You help her into the tub and then take a bath sponge and slowly try to help her wash away the day, dragging the soft material down her back, up her legs, over her breasts. You're careful and tender, and maybe it's the tenderness that breaks her, but Gail's eyes fill with heavy tears.

"Holly," she says hoarsely.

You're respond with a quiet "hmmmm," not wanting to break the calm of the spell you're trying to weave.

"I killed a man today."

The words are thick with unshed tears, unacknowledged fears.

There's nothing you can do to make this easier for her, nothing you can do to heal the pain or put her back together.

All you can do is be here for her, and love her.

"I know, honey, I know."


	4. Resurrection

How you begin again.

_Future_

* * *

**I.**

_Gail_

On Thursday you shot and killed someone.

A twenty-four year old man named Austin Collier who was so upset about the fact that his ex-girlfriend had dumped him, slept with someone else, and gotten pregnant and engaged, that he'd done a hit of crystal, gone over to her home, and taken her hostage with a kitchen knife when she told him she didn't love him anymore. In order to save that woman's life, and the life of her child, you'd had to pull the trigger of your service weapon. You'd had to shoot to kill.

It's not the first time you've discharged your weapon in the line of duty, but it's the first time you've killed someone.

It replays in your mind, like a bad movie montage. The knife at Constance Rivera's neck. The sound of Andy shouting behind the suspect. Your pulse thundering in your chest.

The weight of the trigger against your finger, the chemical scent of burning powder.

His tears.

Hers.

Yours.

Austin Collier's life was over, and that was on you.

In the minutes and hours after the shooting, as you surrendered your gun and your uniform, as you gave your statement, the only thing you could really think of was Holly. How much you wanted to see her. How much you needed to hear her voice, feel her warm hands over yours. How you wanted to let her comfort you and wash away all

How much you wanted to see Holly.

But you'd messed that up; or she had, but you hadn't let her fix it. And that was on you too. She'd tried calling you for a week straight, leaving voicemails and sending texts to your phone. But you were hurt and stubborn, and you refused to let her back in.

Eventually she'd stopped calling.

It's been three weeks now since you've seen her, and you're not even sure she'd take your call if you tried. You are spectacularly good at burning bridges, after all.

You don't remember what made you go to the club, maybe it's because it's where you last saw Holly, where you last kissed her. But it doesn't matter why, really. What matters is that the drinks are good and potent. You open a tab and tell the bartender to keep the drinks coming.

Soon enough the alcohol helps you to forget the empty spaces in your heart. Helps to dull the pain of losing Holly and numb the shock of the feel of the trigger against your finger. Soon everything is easy, and nothing hurts anymore.

And then there's nothing but darkness.

* * *

_Holly_

You spend the night at Gail's side. If anyone asked, you'd say it was to make sure she didn't drift off into an alcohol-induced coma or drown in her own vomit, but the truth is, you need to be next to her. For the past three weeks you've gone through each day with your senses numb and dull. But seeing Gail again, seeing her smile—even drunkenly—at you, your world has come alive again.

And you're not quite ready to let that feeling go yet.

So you sit on the floor of your bedroom and watch her chest rise and fall in the moonlight.

It's a long night.

You wake her up every now and again to get some water into her. "Gail. Gail, honey, come on," you say gently, "let's sit you up. I want you to drink some water so you don't get too dehydrated, okay? Just little sips."

She sputters a little, still mostly unconscious, but you don't mind. The towel you laid down under her head catches any drops that spill.

Shortly after that she wakes again and you realize just in time that she's going to throw up. You bring the bucket up to her and rub her back while she heaves, thankful that you'd thought to bring it into the bedroom with you.

It happens again a couple of hours later.

Around six am she sits up straight with a shout, startling you awake from your doze. She's trapped in the midst of a nightmare, and it several minutes to break past the terrified glaze in her eyes. It's not the first she's had in your bed, but this was certainly the most intense, and it takes a while longer for her sobs to fade away.

You're shaken, and so as the sun appears over the skyscrapers in the horizon, you crawl into bed with her, and wrap your arms around her still trembling body.

"It's okay, Gail, sweetie," you whisper into her ear, short blonde hairs tickling at your nose, "I've got you, I'm here."

You'll keep the demons at bay.

**II.**

_Gail_

On Thursday you killed someone.

On Friday you wake up in Holly's bed.

You know this from the feel of her sheets against your skin and the way the light of the late morning sun falls across the room. You've woken up here before, you've watched the sunlight play across Holly's darker skin as you whiled away the hours learning her body.

This bed, this room, these are not new to you.

For a single moment you're happy.

But then yesterday comes back in a flash, and the weeks before that. And you're pretty sure, even with the pounding in your skull and the waves in your stomach, that you're not supposed to be here.

Slowly all you come to full awareness. You can't think of a time you've been more hung-over. Everything hurts, absolutely everything. The hair on your scalp, your toenails, the soft roughness of a towel under your cheek.

You look around the room carefully, slowly. It's Holly's room for sure, so the memory of her hands on your face last night is probably real. And the even dimmer one of standing naked before her in the bathroom. Somehow she found you last night, found you and brought you back to her home. She took care of you, just like she always does.

More than anything, more than the sound of the bullet leaving your gun, it's this that makes the tears gathering in your eyes start to fall, the realization that you're back in Holly's bed, something you've missed with an actual physical ache. You aren't sure how long you lay crying in the dim room, but it can't be long before the door opens and Holly peeks her head in.

"Gail," she says softly, "can I come in?"

When you don't say anything she comes in anyway, and sits down at your side on the edge of the bed.

"How are you feeling," she asks and brings a hand up to cradle your face, "yeah, stupid question. Here, let me help you up. There's some Tylenol and a glass of water on the bedside table, let's see if you can keep that down, okay?"

She helps you to sit up and you remember her doing the same thing over and over during the night.

"What time is it," you ask after taking a few timid sips of water. The simple process of sitting up had your stomach swirling.

She takes the glass back from you, and fits a pillow between you and the headboard. "Just after 11," Holly says, "I've been waking you up every so often to get some water into you."

You respond, your raspy voice strange to hear, "What's with the towel?"

"That," Holly says dryly, "and the bucket on the floor, are in case you need to vomit again and don't think you can make it to the bathroom."

"Did that … did that happen?" You don't really need to ask, you already know the answer.

"Once or twice," she answers.

You're pretty sure she's low-balling you, but you let her. You'll take whatever shred of dignity you can find.

"Holly-," you start, unsure of what to say but needing to say something to fill the silence. An apology or a thank you, maybe. A confession.

"Shhh," she tells you, and gives you a sad smile, "it's okay. Let's just get you cleaned up first before anything else, okay? Think you're ready to get up?"

Nodding hurts your head, so you hope that the gentle squeeze of your hand on her thigh translates.

"Okay," Holly says as she stands up before you and takes both of your hands in her own. "You need a shower, a toothbrush, and then some breakfast."

Forty minutes later you're sitting at the breakfast bar in Holly's kitchen, wearing one of Holly's old uni hoodies and a pair of her yoga pants. She's made you oatmeal and peppermint tea, refusing to give you any coffee because, she says, it'll just make your hangover headache worse. But you don't argue, you just slowly lift the spoon to your mouth and eat. The repetitive motion is comforting. Despite the soothing shower, where you made liberal use of the tea-tree oil body wash that always makes Holly smell wonderful, and the toothpaste, your head is still only just hanging on. Getting out of the shower you'd experienced a wave of dizziness and nausea that had you clinging to the sink, waiting for it to pass. If you have to do anything more than sit in the kitchen and eat anytime soon, you're not sure you'll survive.

"I found your phone," Holly says, placing it down on the counter next to you and then taking a seat.

You thank her with a small smile. "Hey," you ask, "how come you're not at work today? Did you take off?"

The look she gives you is sympathetic. "No, it sounds like our relationship came up during the investigation, and the department put me on leave so no one could claim that there was any evidence tampering. It's not a big deal."

Neither of you comment on the fact that there really isn't a relationship to speak of at the moment. But you can feel your heart drop to hear her words at the end. You know how important Holly's job is to her, how much she loves it. And now, because of you, she can't do it.

Just another consequence of your actions.

Another person whose life you've tainted.

You break everything you touch.

Holly's phone dings.

"I got a text from Oliver," she says, reading the small screen. "No official word on the investigation but he says that unofficially it's already been ruled a good shoot. He thinks you'll hear later today."

Something in you snaps, and you can feel your blood turn cold.

"A good shoot, Holly," you ask rhetorically, ice in your voice. "A man is dead. A man is dead because of me. Because I killed him. Austin Collier's body is in your morgue because I decided that he should die…"

"Gail," the beautiful brunette tries to say, but you don't let her speak. You have to say this, you have to let her know how dangerous you are. You have to make her see how it's better if she stays away from you.

"Maybe if I'd waited, maybe he would have put the knife down. Back-up was on the way, we called it in. Maybe they would have been able to talk him down, and then he'd still be alive. Or I could have tried to convince him to let her go and take me instead, right? That might have worked…"

You can hear your voice get more and more desperate, but you can't stop it, can't stop yourself from running straight down this path. You know where it ends—a dark and silent place—but you think it's better than this, better than ruining every one you love.

"But I didn't, Holly, and he's dead. Because I just couldn't wait, because I couldn't see another way out. Holly, it's what I do. I get into something and then when I can't figure out how to get out of it I break out. And people get hurt. I hurt Chris and Nick. My parents are always disappointed in me. Fuck," you spit out bitterly, "Jerry died because of me."

The taste of the words on your tongue sets your stomach rolling again, and you rise to pace.

"Jerry died because of me and Traci, Traci lost just about everything that mattered to her. And you," you say, wanting so badly to touch the beautiful woman staring at you with fear in her eyes. But looking at her just makes you so sad, strips all your fight and anger away until all you feel is loss.

"You," you say in a small voice, unable to even look at the beautiful, perfect, whole woman sitting before you, "it's good that we broke up. Because I would have ruined you too."

You hear a sob and look up, but Holly is frozen in place. It's not until you feel the tears running down your face that you realize the sound came from you.

"Oh, honey," Holly says, breaking free of her trance and standing to pull you into her arms before you collapse. She lowers you both to the floor, and then wraps you up fiercely in her arms and lets you sob and weep and mourn against her body.

* * *

_Holly_

You're terrified.

Terrified, and wholly out of your depths.

You've always known about the darkness in Gail, about the sensitive and delicate fragility she hid under her brittle, biting shell.

But the woman in your lap is broken, lost in the deepness of a lifetime of fear and regret and betrayal. And you're not sure you know how to lead her back into the light.

The breakdown doesn't surprise you, you expected it actually. Anyone with a heart as big and as loving as Gail's, anyone who feels as deeply as she does, would have a hard time dealing with the events of the past day, not to mention the events of the past months. But this layering of griefs, the heaviness of the blame and responsibility that she carries, it scares you.

You have no idea what to do.

So you hold her, pull her into your lap and wrap your arms tight around her shaking body. You sit and let her cry into you until there's nothing left. Until she's empty and her arms clutch at you as if you were the sole lifejacket in her sea of grief.

You have no idea what time it is, but she's been mostly quiet for a while now. Just sniffling every now and then, her nose and throat thick with mucus.

You're not sure what to do or say now that the storm has calmed for the moment, so you're glad when she speaks first.

"Holly," she says tentatively, almost a whisper.

"Mmhmm," you answer, not wanting to scare her with actual words quiet yet.

She almost sounds afraid as she answers. "I think I need to call my therapist."

You let out the breath you've been holding.

This you can do.

Soon Gail is deposited on the couch with a new mug of tea and a dry sweatshirt. And one very, very important statement from you to think about. Because you're not broken up. You don't know what you are exactly at the moment, but you're not broken up. You know that. You know that as strongly and as fiercely as you know that she could never ruin you.

And so you tell her exactly that.

What you don't tell her is the part about how she can't ruin you because you're pretty sure she's the person who makes you whole. You don't want to scare her away. There's time.

Then you call Gail's therapist's office to schedule an emergency appointment.

And then, after explaining the situation and refusing to take "Dr. Hotchkiss is on holiday today through Monday" for an answer, you call Gail's therapist's personal number.

Unfortunately, she can't make it back into town tonight, but she agrees to drive back from her family's cabin early tomorrow morning after hearing about the shooting and Gail's breakdown earlier.

Gail talks to her for a few minutes, and you step far enough out of the room to give her privacy without forsaking the comfort of hearing her soft voice.

She calls you back into the room when she's done. She's sitting there curled up on your couch, hands wrapped around a mug of tea, cocooned in your favorite blanket. Her eyes are red and her face is puffy, and her short hair is sticking up in all sorts of weird places.

You don't think you've ever seen a more beautiful sight.

She asks you to join her on the couch like she's afraid you'll say no, and you tell her you'll join her in a minute, that you just need to change your shirt.

Up in your room you take a few moments to steady your breathing and calm your still-racing heart. You've seen a side to Gail today that scared you. Not in the way Gail would interpret if you told her. You're not afraid that she'll hurt you or ruin you or any of that. You're afraid for her, you're afraid of how she sees herself in the world.

You're afraid because the love you have for her is already stronger than you'll let yourself acknowledge, much less speak aloud.

You're afraid because you think you might love her more than she loves herself.

Because it's not her presence that could break you, but her absence.

You box up those thoughts and bury them away for now, head back downstairs, pulling a henley over your head as you go.

The rest of the night passes quietly. You order some food and manage to get Gail to eat some after it arrives. And then you pull her close, pull her head into the pillow of your lap, and queue up some stupid movie in your Netflix queue. You spend the rest of the evening like that, her head in your lap, your hand playing with her hair, or running down the lines of her arm, her back. Eventually she drifts off, and you wake her gently to take her upstairs to your bed.

**III.**

_Gail_

Saturday morning comes too soon. It was a restless night, and your sleep was plagued by nightmares.

But every time you woke with your heart in your throat, Holly was there at your side to ground you. She whispered things to you until your breathing calmed, and pressed her body tight against yours as she held you.

Now with her steady, sleeping, breaths in your ear, and the sunrise peeking through the slats of her bedroom shades, you feel a strange combination of grateful and embarrassed. Grateful to feel her warmth at your back. Embarrassed about your breakdown the night before.

You'd been in a bad place last night. The stress and fear and memory of the shooting. All the long months before, the years before. Your hangover and exhaustion. All those days of missing the one person who made your world feel right-side up. Everything had circled and swirled into one terrible moment and you'd found yourself telling Holly all of the things you fear about yourself, all of the things you hated about yourself.

But now you feel bare. Exposed.

Unsure of yourself.

You're glad that Holly is still asleep, comforted by her soft snores. Because you need some time to settle yourself again, need time to rebuild the walls you tore down yesterday. And she needs the sleep. You know she was up most of Thursday night watching over you, and then last night you must have woken her up half a dozen times.

You shift in her embrace until you're facing her, chest to chest and face to face. Beautiful Holly. You'd missed her like a part of you had been ripped away.

Last night she'd told you that the two of you weren't over, and you'd let that thought carry you through the night.

You were going to keep letting it carry you. Through the rest of the day and beyond, as long as you needed something to hold you up.

Holly sighs in her sleep, and you rub your nose against the soft material of her pajama shirt.

* * *

_Holly_

Gail's been in with her therapist for over an hour now.

You've been trying not to watch the clock but you can't help it. The book you brought to keep yourself occupied isn't holding your interest.

So instead you sit on the waiting room couch and stare at the hotel-chain art on the wall. You pace. You page through old magazines.

You think about this morning, about waking up to find Gail had turned into you at some point in the night. She'd seemed a little better, her eyes looked a little less haunted than they had yesterday. You could tell that she was nervous about this morning's appointment, and embarrassed about last night.

You'd both been quiet, neither of you really saying more than was necessary. But it was a comfortable quiet. One born of ease rather than discord. You wondered if she was saving up all her words for her appointment.

The door to the therapist's inner office opens and shakes you out of your thoughts.

"Holly?" An older woman with red hair pokes her head out. "We're almost done here. Gail was wondering if you'd come in and join us for the last few minutes."

You fumble with your bag and follow her into the light and airy office. Gail is sitting on a comfortable-looking couch, knees drawn up into her chest and a pile of shredded tissue at her side. She looks up, but won't entirely meet your eyes.

You're not sure where to sit. There's a plush-looking armchair, and space on the couch next to Gail. You want to sit next to her, but you know that sometimes when she's feeling fragile she needs her space.

"Why don't you have a seat on the couch," Dr. Hotchkiss says.

Gail remains quiet. But once you settle onto the comfortable cushion the therapist begins, her voice soothing.

"Now," she says, "Gail has given me permission to speak freely in front of you. We've talked about what happened at work and then yesterday's episode. And we've also discussed the event that disrupted your relationship."

"Okay," you say, glancing over to Gail at your side.

The doctor continues. "And I think we've arrived at a good place for today. What do you think, Gail, would you say we've had a productive session today?"

The blonde nods in response, but when the doctor doesn't to speak Gail responds with an almost petulant "yes."

"But during our discussion, Gail expressed concern at your reaction to recent events, and so she's invited you into our session to ask how you're doing with everything that's happened in the past few days."

You hope your surprise doesn't show too much. But you can't help it, you're kind of shocked. You know how private Gail is, the unwavering strength she thinks she needs to show to the world. And even though you'd known that she sometimes sees a therapist, you hadn't expected her to let you stay in the office during her appointment. But when you'd pulled up to drop her off, she'd asked you to come up with her before you could tell her to call you when she was ready to leave.

To be invited in?

This woman continually astounds you.

"Holly?" the therapist asks, "is there anything you want to talk about?"

"Can I say them to Gail, or should I just start talking," you ask, not sure how she wants you to proceed.

"Whatever makes you most comfortable," Dr. Hotchkiss answers kindly.

It takes you a moment to find your words, to find the right words to tell Gail everything you want her to hear.

When you do, you turn and bring your legs up onto the couch with you, facing your whole body toward Gail. And you let the silence between you needle at her until she raises her head and looks you in the eyes.

You know that you need to be honest with her, and open.

"You scare me sometimes," you say. "Sometimes you climb into these dark places and I don't know how to help you out of them. Yesterday was the worst, but even the night before when I didn't know where you were and then found you drunk nearly to the point of alcohol poisoning, or the night of the shootings when you cut your hair. Yesterday you told me that I was better off without you, you told me that you ruin everything you touch."

You take a deep breath and scoot a little closer to her on the couch before continuing.

"It's like you don't have any idea how important you are, how amazing you are, Gail. To the people in your life, your family. Your friends and colleagues. To me. You're so important to so many people, Gail. So important. And you need to know that."

You look over at the woman sitting across from the couch, and she nods her head, encouraging you to continue.

"Gail, sweetie, I know that you carry around a lot of things. I know that you think Jerry's death was your fault. I know that you're still upset with yourself for how things with Nick ended. And I know that what happened on Thursday is one more thing to add to that list. But honey," you say, and reach out your hand to lay against her leg, "I need you to also carry around the fact that two people are alive today because of you. There's a very grateful fiancé and father-to-be who wants to thank you personally for saving the lives of the people who are important to him. You have to carry that around too to help balance out the rest, Gail."

"Holly," the therapist begins after a moment's pause, "you're touching on a lot of what we've talked about this morning, and I think it's important for Gail to hear it from you as well."

Dr. Hotchkiss continues talking, and you're listening carefully, but you can't bring yourself to look away from Gail as the redheaded woman speaks. And what she says helps, both you and Gail.

You'd started to cry when the doctor asked Gail to tell you some of what they'd discussed this morning, how she felt about you having seen her at her lowest point. You'd been surprised, and then heartbroken, to hear her speak aloud of her fear that you would be disappointed in her, or judge her for what had happened the other morning, Austin Collier's death. She was afraid you'd look at her differently, as a killer, as something dark and unworthy.

Hearing that you'd crossed the rest of the space between the two of you and took her chin in your hand to bring her eyes up from where she was staring at her hands.

"Gail," you said as she refused to let your eyes meet, "Gail, look at me."

Eventually her blue eyes met your brown ones.

"You are not a killer," you say as gently but forcefully as you know how. "You are a police officer. Your job is to protect the innocent and the vulnerable from the people who want to harm them. That's your job and you're so good at it. Because you care about them. You can pretend not to all you want but I know you, and I know how big your heart is. And it's that big heart that is making you hurt right now. But Gail, what happened on Thursday was a tragedy, one that will affect a bunch of lives for a long time. The hostage you saved, and her family. Austin Collier's family. You and the people who care about you. We're all affected by it. It was terrible, and the choice that you were forced to make was a terrible one, something no one should have to do. But you did the right thing. You made the right choice. People will live because of you. And the mourning you're in for the man who put you all into this situation? The grief you feel over his death? Gail, I don't need proof that you're a good person, I know it. It's because of things like this, like the fact that you're grieving over this man, that I know you're a good person, and a good cop."

Gail's eyes flood anew with tears but she nods into the cup of your palm, and you hope that she heard what you said, heard it and took it into her very bones.

Because you needed her to know the truth of it. How you saw her and knew what strength and goodness were. In your job, and hers, you're surrounded by so many reminders of the worst things humanity can do. But Gail helps you remember the other side, she helps you see past the dark veil of your job and a world filled with a beauty you'd almost forgotten could exist.

You need her to remember that it's there too.

And when Dr. Hotchkiss asks if there's anything else you'd like to say, you tell Gail.

You tell her that you need her not to close herself off completely in moments like this in the future. That you need her to call someone next time she feels the need to go dark, to go off the radar. It doesn't have to be you, you say, though privately you hope that it will always be you. But you need her to call someone, to let someone in—Oliver, Chris, Andy, Steve—so that you know she won't be alone in the darkness, in the hurt. And you tell her that no matter what happens between the two of you, whether you're friends or girlfriends or work colleagues or whatever, you will always be there for her when she needs you.

You promise.

You don't make promises lightly.

**IV.**

_Gail_

You hear from Oliver early on Sunday morning.

The investigation is over, it was ruled a clean shoot.

Your job is safe.

He never doubted it.

He tells you that once you've been cleared by the department shrink you can come back whenever you feel ready.

"And Holly," you ask, "she can go back to work too?"

"Yes, indeed, darling, and she doesn't even need to get her head shrunk first."

You really do love that man.

You talk for a few minutes, fill him in on the barest details of how you've been, tell him that Holly's been taking good care of you when he asks. And then you tell him that you're going to need some time, a week or two, before you'll be up to hit the streets again.

"Take your time," he says before you end the call.

Holly's upstairs in the shower, you can hear the water going still, and so you take a seat on the couch you've made your home for most of the past two days. Yesterday after getting back from the therapist and promising not to resort to any of your usual coping methods—alcohol, solitude, or sex, in that order—you'd gone immediately to it. You needed the soft embrace of the couch cushions and the warmth of the fleece blanket Holly had brought out to cover you up with after your breakdown Friday afternoon. For her part, Holly had puttered around for a bit, moving sort of aimlessly from room to room while you sat there in her living room watching TV and not talking.

She'd needed her space too, you'd realized. The session with your therapist, the things that had been pulled out of each of you, more or less willingly, had left you both a little raw. But eventually she'd settled down on the couch with you, stealing half the blanket, and the two of you had spent the rest of the day and night eating junk food and watching a marathon of old black and white detective movies before climbing the stairs to sleep.

When you woke this morning, before Holly again, you'd felt at ease. Content in a way you'd been missing for weeks.

Closer to happy than you'd been in a while.

You know you can't stay here on Holly's couch forever. You know that she'll probably be going back to work tomorrow, and you have some things to deal with on your own. Things you and your therapist had been discussing even before the shooting on Thursday. Things like the walls you've built up around yourself, your feelings for Holly, and more.

You know that there are bridges to mend and wounds to heal. But you're good with your hands and Holly's a doctor. So maybe the two of you can work on fixing things together.

So when you hear her feet on the stairs, and see her poke her head—hair still wet—into the living room to check on you, you pat her spot on the couch.

"Come on," you say, lifting the blanket up in invitation, "there's a Law & Order marathon on. You're going to miss the start."

* * *

_Holly_

You should really get up and turn some lights on. It's getting dusky outside and the glare from the television in the dark is starting to hurt your eyes.

You should get up but you know you won't, because Gail is sitting on the couch with you, her feet in your lap, trying not to laugh at something happening on-screen.

You've been playing "Catch the Killer" all day. It's a game that Gail made up, or claims to have made up, at least. It involves watching old episodes of Law & Order and figuring out who'd committed the crime before the television cops can.

But the marathon has been over for about an hour now, and she's still sitting here with you, in your home, watching television with you.

A week ago she wouldn't even talk with you.

But now it feels like everything is back the way it was, or like it could be. Like she's back in your life.

And oh, how you want that to be true. You ache for that to be true.

But you're confused, and you're not sure where her head is, or what she thinks is happening, and not knowing that has caused you both trouble before.

So when the big cats documentary she's been laughing at goes to commercial, you reach over for the remote and turn the television off.

She pouts at you.

"Gail," you say, "we need to talk."

"All we've done is talk, Lunchbox," she says in a playful tone.

The use of your nickname makes you smile.

"We talked about the shooting, but we need to talk about us. You've spent the past couple of days here with me, living with me, and I have loved being with you. But before Thursday we hadn't spoken in weeks. We need to talk about that."

You can see something in her deflate just a bit, like a breath she'd been holding broke free.

She looks at you brazenly as she responds. "There's nothing to talk about Holly. I get it, fun, right? I like fun, you like fun, we'll just have fun together."

You shake your head. How could such an intelligent woman, a cop whose very job it is to be observant and to see things that others don't, be blind about the way you feel?

"Gail," you say and cup her face in your hands, "what I said? It's not really what I meant. I wasn't sure how to respond to Lisa. You'd gone from beautiful-straight-friend to amazing-woman-in-my-bed in the space of a single day. And I loved being with you-I love being with you-but we hadn't talked about anything. All of a sudden we were dating and sleeping together and I don't know, I wasn't sure what this was to you. I knew what I wanted it all to mean for me, but I didn't know what you wanted it to mean. So I refused to let myself think of it as a relationship or serious, because if I did and it wasn't the same for you, I'd be devastated. If I thought of it as something more than fun, and it didn't mean as much to you, it would—"

"It meant everything," she interrupts.

"Gail?"

She looks at you from hooded lids. "Our relationship, Holly. You. It meant everything. The entire world was falling apart and I was drowning but you, you were dry land."

You can't help the way your heart races in response. "Oh, honey," you say softly.

"Everything was so good with you, and maybe we should have talked about it, and maybe I should have told you how I felt, how important you were and how real it all was for me. But I was afraid that if we talked about it you'd remember that I'm just a straight cop with a jerky attitude and we'd go back to the way it was before. And I really, really don't want to be your friend, Holly, not just your friend."

The two of you really are stupid, insecure idiots.

You smooth her rowdy cowlick down and smile. "I was afraid that if we talked about it you'd remember that you're a smoking hot cop with men and women lusting after you left and right. Who had far better options than a nerdy forensic pathologist."

Her smile warms your heart. There's just a little bit of her usual cockiness around the edges, and you're so happy to see it.

"Well, that first part may be true, Hol, but being a genius scientist you should know that the second part is very, very wrong."

The kiss she gives you is delicate, tentative, sweet.

"Because no matter how many options are out there for me to pick from, Holly, I choose you. I want you. You're the right person for me, because you make me feel things I never thought existed, Hol. You make me feel good, like I'm a good person, like I'm real, you know?"

You do. God help you, but you do.

You pull back from her and look deep into her eyes, not sure if she's ready to hear what you want to say next. If you're ready to say it. But you're being honest with each other, because if you're really going to walk down this road together, she deserves to know everything.

"Gail," you start out softly, almost silently.

She leans in to hear you.

"You should know, I mean, you deserve to know. If we're going to try to start again, you should know that I think I'm halfway to falling in love with you already. And you don't have to say anything, or feel anything, but if we're going into this with eyes open this time, you should just know that."

Gail looks at you with soft eyes before placing a chaste kiss on your lips.

"Okay," she says, and smiles.

It's not perfect by a long shot, there are still things to discuss and ground to make up.

But it feels like a start.

A new beginning.


	5. Admitting Procedures

Food poisoning.

_Future_

* * *

"Please don't take this the wrong way, babe," you tell your girlfriend who is currently curled up in the fetal position on a gurney in a curtained off exam room, "but you look pretty gross right now."

Holly glares up at you from the bed with glassy eyes. She really does look terrible. Her skin is flush and damp from the fever she's running, and her normally glossy hair is limp and dirty and dull. The lips that you love to kiss are chapped and cracking from two days of not being able to keep anything down. But worst of all, her usual energy and pep is nowhere to be found. Your bouncy, excitable girl is listless, lethargic.

"Please don't take this the wrong way, Peck," Holly responds with a lazy whisper, "but I have hate in my heart for you right now."

You take her hand in yours, the hand that isn't currently hooked up to an IV pole, that is.

"No you don't," you whisper back, gently massaging the sensitive skin in-between her thumb and index finger.

"No," she says softly, "I don't." Her lower lip starts to tremble as you bring up your hand to brush a few errant strands of hair away from her eyes, eyes that are quickly filling up with unshed tears.

Holly's not a crier, not generally, but she's been throwing up for two days straight now and if anyone's earned the right to weep and cry and throw a fit, it's her. But you know that the tears won't make your girlfriend feel any better, and will probably end up just making her feel worse. Emotionally _and_ physiologically.

"Hey, hey," you say, using a thumb to wipe at the wetness gathering on her eyelids, "no tears, babe. You're just going to waste all that precious salt water they're pumping into your veins." You gesture with your head at the IV pole she's currently hooked up to, and the multiple bags hanging from it. One, you know, is saline to help restore all the fluids Holly's lost from several days' worth of nausea and vomiting. The nurse called it a banana bag; you suppose it makes an odd kind of sense. It is full of some yellow liquid, after all. The other, the nurse said when she hung the bag and connected it to the line already in Holly's hand, is something should help stop the throwing up.

So far it seems to be working. Holly was admitted into the ER three hours ago and it's been at least an hour since she last gestured desperately for the little plastic tub the orderly left in the room. She'd been crying then, so frustrated and tired of being sick. You hope she didn't see, but your eyes teared up as well. You hated that she was suffering and that there wasn't really anything you could do beyond rubbing wide circles on her back and holding her hair back as her whole body shuddered and heaved. You hated that it was kind of your fault.

It wasn't, not really.

All you'd done was pick a new restaurant to try out for dinner on Saturday night. You'd heard about this new Latin Asian fusion place from one of the newest rookies, Morelli? Moreno? Something like that. It was a hole-in-the-wall kind of place at the moment, out of the way and private. Just the kind of place that appeals to you. Plus the rookie swore by it, said she'd had these teriyaki pork tacos that were to die for. So you'd taken Holly there to celebrate one of her articles getting published in a major forensic journal. You are so very proud of your gorgeous nerd.

It had to have been the guacamole-it's the only thing she had that you didn't. Because of the tomatoes, mostly, but also because avocados are kind of slimy and really green and gross you out a little bit. But the night was good. You both had a couple of sake margaritas to celebrate, the music in the corner was fun and upbeat, and the food was great, or so you had thought.

The night had finished in your favorite way, in Holly's bed. When you woke the next morning, sweetly sore, and meandered downstairs to get the coffee started while Holly slept in, you'd amusedly followed the trail of discarded clothing from the entrance of the bedroom to the front door. Apparently you both had been too distracted by the hot and fierce kisses being exchanged to be neat about getting naked the night before. Remembering the feel of Holly's wet, open mouth against your neck, the way her tongue traced the line of your collarbone caused an immediate reaction to course through your body. Your cheeks flushed, your nipples tightened into hard points, and a hot wetness pooled between your legs.

It had been a good night.

Everything seemed fine until Monday, in fact, when you got an early text message from Holly telling you that she was sick and heading home. By the time you got to her place that night, she was a mess. Fever, painful stomach cramps, nausea, vomiting, the works. You found her curled up on the rug in the bathroom, a rolled up towel for a pillow. She had looked so pathetic, so miserable there on the bathroom floor; you'd felt so bad for her. Poor Holly had taken one look at you and then promptly heaved into the porcelain bowl of the toilet in front of her.

You tried not to take it personally.

A long night of trying to find something that your sweet girlfriend could keep in her stomach for more than twenty minutes turned into a day of trying to decide whether to take her to the hospital or not. Something you learned about Holly over the past few days? She is stubborn as a mule when she's sick. The admitting nurse laughed when you told her as much. _Doctors always make the worst patients,_ she'd said.

But by late, late Tuesday night, Holly had given in. Dehydrated, exhausted, and just fucking empty, she'd allowed you to maneuver her into some clean and comfortable clothes, and help her into the car.

Now, a few hours later, she's got a hospital wristband with her name on it and a gown that gapes in the back and gives you a peek at her cute, perfect ass. If she weren't so sick it'd be adorable.

A doctor comes through the curtain with Holly's chart. She's young, can't be much older than you, and she looks as exhausted as you feel. Strangely, you find that comforting. You can tell Holly's half-asleep, so you listen as carefully as you can to the doctor's report on the test results so you can repeat them back to your girlfriend later, when she's more awake. You don't know all the words or terms the woman uses, but you get the gist of it. Food poisoning, bacterial infection, dehydration, observation, etc.

The most important information is easy enough to understand.

A) Holly will be fine.

And B) unless something weird pops up in her blood work or the cultures they took, it's pretty likely that she'll be discharged by the end of the day.

"That's if," the doctor stresses, "the vomiting stays under control and she can keep liquids down. Otherwise we'll admit her to general and keep her overnight."

"Hey," you hear Holly whisper sleepily once the doctor leaves, "come up here and hold me."

Holding Holly is one of your favorite things to do, topped only by having Holly hold you, and the lack of sleep and worry are making your eyelids feel like they weigh a hundred pounds. So you kick off your shoes and climb up onto the gurney next to your girl, careful not to tangle her IV as you go. You sit back against the raised head of the bed while Holly, abdomen too sore to sit up, curls around the lower half of your body, wrapping her arms around your waist and resting her head in the soft warmth of your lap. You doze off with one hand gently combing through her hair and the other pressed up against her back, tracing soft circles on her back through the thin cotton of her hospital gown.

You spend the day dozing in and out with Holly in your arms. When she starts to feel better-weak, but better-you run down to the gift shop and get a crossword book to keep her occupied, and a soft, fluffy stuffed kitten because you think it'll make her smile.

It does, and the kitten joins the two of you on the bed as you read crossword clues to Holly and fill in the answers for her.

Around five in the evening a nurse comes in to tell you that the doctor has given the go-ahead to get Holly discharged, and the two of you spend the next several hours waiting around for the paperwork to be processed. But by nine o'clock, after a quick joint shower, you've got Holly tucked into her own bed. You plant a kiss on her cool forehead and then take a few minutes just to pick up things around the house, toss some laundry in the machine, and clean up the bathroom, stuff like that.

As expected, when you get back to the bedroom, Holly is fast asleep.

What you didn't expect is to see her cuddled up to the stuffed kitten.

She'll forgive you for the photo eventually.

You couldn't help yourself.

It was too sweet.


	6. A Friend in Need

Everybody needs somebody sometimes.

_Post-"Friday the 13th," Pre-"For Better or Worse"_

* * *

The apartment is quiet and dark when you get home. It makes you uneasy. You haven't been comfortable in either since your experience with Perik, and your friends have been good about making sure you're never completely alone. Normally, after the kind of day you've had you'd go to the Penny with the gang; hitch a ride with Chris or Dov, down a couple of beers with Traci and Andy, have a shot or two with Nick before heading out with him for a quick roll in the hay.

But Chris is in Timmons, Dov is probably out having gross dork sex with Chloe, and you just can't go anywhere where you might have to see Nick and Andy make eyes at each other all night. So that rules out the Penny with Traci, if Traci were even free tonight anyway. Which she's not. You asked.

So you're here alone in your apartment, trying not to have a panic attack in the silent, empty living room.

It's been awhile since you felt the panic slink back up the line of your spine, but tonight you can feel it building. You could take one of the pills the therapist prescribed for you in the days after your abduction, but they leave you feeling numb and slow and cold. It reminds you too much of how you felt on that table in Perik's basement. Helpless. Frozen. Time and feeling and reality all slipping slowly, slowly away as you fall deeper and deeper into the darkness.

You can't feel that way again.

It almost destroyed you once.

You're certain it would succeed if given a second chance.

You're certain you would fail.

* * *

The idea comes to you in bed as you flip through the channels and let the sound of the television drown out the memories and silent screams in your head. You're not sure where the thought came from, the idea to call her, this Dr. Stewart that you've only really met once. But once it flits through your head you can't shake it off.

Actually, now that you're thinking about it, she's been on your mind a lot. Somehow this woman has slipped into the shadows of your thoughts and made herself at home. She's been popping in and out of your mind all week, actually, ever since you left her in the morgue after the Robby Robbins case. You found yourself thinking about her at the oddest times, wondering what she was up to or whether you'd see her at this scene or that one.

So tonight, when you wonder what Holly is doing with her evening, whether she's got plans and who with, you do something absolutely out of the ordinary. Instead of pushing your curiosity back down, burying it under all the other things you shouldn't be thinking about, you let it linger, like a sip of good wine, warm and potent on your tongue. You let it roll through your senses, let the memory of the comfort and ease you felt in her presence spark along your skin.

She was weird and smart and funny, and all your snark and sass rolled right off of her.

You like her, you realize. Which is unusual because you don't really like anyone. And certainly not after such a short time. Usually it takes you some time to warm up to a new person. If it happens at all.

But with Holly, it was different. It felt different. And maybe you can use something different lately.

Certainly you could use a new friend. It's not like the ones you already have are turning out to be worth much.

One quick phone call to the desk sergeant on duty and you're adding a new contact into your phone before typing out a quick message.

_[[ lunchbox. im bored. drink with me. ]]_

It's not exactly your most eloquent work, but it's true and it gets your point across. You're bored. And you want her to entertain you. To keep you company, keep you out of the darkness that lurks in your own thoughts if you're left to yourself for too long.

_[[ Is it considered an abuse of power to use your PO skills to look up an unlisted number, Officer Peck? H. ]]_

She makes you laugh, that's for sure.

_[[ consider it an act of public safety. im worried what will happen if u only have dead ppl to talk to. ]]_

You try not to focus on how pleased you are that she knew it was you while you wait for her reply.

You don't have to wait long.

_[[ It's only worrisome if the dead talk back. Drink with you? H. ]]_

She's funny, it seems.

_[[ alcohol, lunchbox. come out of the lab and save me before i die of boredom. ]]_

_[[ please ]]_

You're not exactly sure why you sent the second text, or why you said please. Everyone knows you're not polite, and that the social graces that everyone else seems to care so much about mean next to nothing to you.

But as you wait for Holly's reply you realize it doesn't matter, you don't have to wonder why you seem to be acting different when it concerns her. She doesn't know you. She doesn't know your past, your history. She doesn't know and doesn't care about your family legacy. She doesn't know about Chris or Nick or, or even Perik. She doesn't know the mask you put on to pretend that none of these things matter to you.

And because of that, you don't have to put it on around her. You are free to just be Gail. Not Officer Peck, not the Superintendent's daughter, not the ex-girlfriend or the victim.

You can just be Gail.

You can figure out just who Gail is.

When your phone vibrates against your leg you smile and pick it up to read the latest message.

_[[ For you, Officer Peck, I suppose I could hang up the white coat. Where to? H. ]]_

You send a message with directions to a little bar that's only a few blocks away from your apartment. You've ridden in a cab a few times since the abduction, but never alone, and never on a night when you can feel the old fear and panic sitting right at the back of your throat. There's no way you'll be able to get in one tonight. You can walk home from Flanagan's.

Plus, it's nowhere that your friends from the 15 would go, so you don't have to worry about running into Andy or Nick at all.

* * *

You get to the bar first, of course, and order yourself a beer. It's a not a nice place, not really. The wooden bar has decades' worth of deep scratches and old stains on it, and the leather booths against the wall have all been ripped and torn and repaired over time. But the place is clean and well-cared for, and the alcohol is always good. Plus, the people, while friendly, generally leave you alone once you order.

It's comfortable, really, and that's why you like it.

You're two beers in by the time Holly walks in the door. She doesn't see you right away—you picked a booth in the far back corner—and you get a chance to just look at her for a moment. Do your cop thing and observe.

She's definitely over-dressed for this place, wearing a pair of tight black jeans and a dark red satin blouse that's open just enough to show off her cleavage. She's got on some silver jewelry; rings on her fingers and a pendant around her neck that catches the dim lights of the room and throws them back into the room. And her hair is done up in some slightly messy but classy up-do that highlights the graceful line of her neck.

She looks good, you think to yourself. If you were a guy, you'd probably even call her hot.

You watch as she scans the people in the room, and catch the quick jerk of her chin when she finally sees you.

"Hey," she says as she slides into the booth, a drink in each hand.

"Why, thank you," you respond and reach for one of the pints.

Holly laughs at you and slides the glass out of your reach. "Nope, Officer, these are both for me."

You pout playfully at her and she pushes it back toward you with a smile.

"Fine," she says, "but drink it slowly. I gotta catch up."

She raises the glass to her lips and takes a long drink. You can see the muscles of her throat working as she swallows, and watch as little droplets of condensation race along the glass and fall onto the wood of the table below, dragging your eyes down past the open vee of her shirt.

You realize that you're staring and avert your eyes, hoping she didn't notice. Instead you focus on the wood of the tabletop, letting your eyes trace over the years of graffiti.

After a second, Holly puts the glass down on the table. "So, Gail," she begins, "what's up with you?"

"Nothing's up. Just looking for a chance to catch up on my medical jurisprudence, Dr. Stewart."

Holly laughs and takes another sip of her beer. "Okay, then, Officer Peck, what do you want to know?"

You press your fingers to your temple and try to look like you're in deep thought.

"What I want to know," you say slowly, "is why you aren't out on a hot date tonight, Dr. Stewart?"

She tilts her head just the slightest, like she's not quite sure she's heard you correctly, and a small crooked smile breaks across her face.

"Wait, this isn't a hot date," she asks, her voice low and sultry.

You can feel your face flush as the third beer hits your system, the warm tingle of alcohol slowly flooding through your veins.

Holly gives you a wide grin.

"Close your mouth, Officer, I'm kidding. I did have plans but it sounded like you needed a friend tonight more than I needed to go with Lisa to her ex's gallery opening. And while that might, might have ended in a hot one night stand with some art show groupie, I think I made the right decision."

She reaches over to clink her glass against yours.

"Another?"

"I think I'm going to switch to something stronger," you tell her as you stand. "Let me get this round, though. A consolation prize for the fact that you're not going to be getting lucky with any hot art groupies tonight."

"You never know," you hear her say as you pull out your wallet, "the night is young."

"True, and this place is full of potential," you say with a smirk and gesture around at the mostly male patrons of the bar.

Her laughter follows you up to the bar as you order a couple of shots of tequila and some more beer, follows you and slips along the curve of your spine to settle somewhere between your ribs, just out of reach.

* * *

"Wait," you say just a little sloppily, "you grew up on a farm? Like, horses and cows and pigs? That kind of farm?"

You're into your second hour at Flanagan's with Holly, and so far it's been a pretty good night. You both have been drinking pretty steadily, even if she's mostly sticking to beer while you switched to shots a while ago. When you asked her about it, she said she wanted to make sure the both of you got home in one piece. As a police officer, you have to respect that. Even if it means she's just nursing her third beer while you toss back another shot and smile.

You know you should slow down and stop soon, and you will, but you're not ready to let reality beat back the comfortable buzz of drunkenness just quite yet.

And somehow you've gotten on the topic of childhoods, and Lord knows you'll need to be drunk to talk about yours with any honesty.

"Kind of," she responds. "It used to be a dairy farm that my great-great-great grandfather started, but then in the seventies the government got involved in the whole industry and my grandfather decided to sell off his cows and equipment and a bunch of the land too. But he kept the farmhouse and a big chunk of the land and started growing hay instead."

You're not sure you heard her right. "Hay," you ask.

"Yes, Gail, hay. It's a big feed crop. So he farmed hay, and then when he retired, my dad took it over. My mom runs her veterinarian clinic out of one of the barns, and we've got a few cows and some chickens for eggs. And yes, some horses. Oh, and there's this great big vegetable garden, and when the garden has a good year we sell the extra produce on the side of the road."

She signals to the bartender and the next thing you know she's thanking him as he drops two bottles of water off at the table.

"Who's 'we,'" you ask as you look at the bottle of water in front of you.

"Here," she says and passes you the one she just opened, "you need to drink this before you can have any more alcohol. Doctor's orders."

Holly ignores your snort of laughter and answers your question. "We is my parents and my siblings. I have three. Pete and Emily, they're twins and four years older than me, and then Carly is three years younger."

She starts to tell you all about growing up on a farm, weaving her memories around you until you can almost smell the animals and hear the wind blowing through the fields. You can picture it perfectly, four dark-headed children with hoes and spades, Holly's hair blowing in the breeze as she chases the clouds in the sky on horseback, an older version of her calling everyone back to the house for dinner. It's the polar opposite of your childhood, and exactly what you dreamed of as a child, reading stories of wide open fields and pioneers in your bed at night when you were a kid. It always sounded like freedom, like paradise away from the disapproving gaze of your mother and the seeming indifference of your brother and father. Even Holly's description of early morning chores and summers spent weeding the garden can't taint the pleasant picture you're drawing in your head.

"That actually sounds pretty awesome," you say as she tells you about the pond where she and her siblings would swim on too-hot summer days. "The whole thing, I mean. Why would you ever leave all that peace and quiet and move to the city? To a place where people feel so crowded together they kill each other for just the promise of breathing room? I mean, just this morning I arrested a guy who attacked his neighbor for playing music too loud too early in the day."

"Don't get me wrong," she replies, "I love my parents' farm and I had a great childhood there. But I wanted more, you know? I wanted to be more than that. I always knew that I wanted to grow up and leave."

You nod your head silently, you can understand that. You might not have done the same thing-you might have done the exact opposite-but you understand the impulse. You spent most of your childhood wanting to grow up and leave, after all. It's just that Holly had had the guts, the ambition to actually do it.

"What about you, Gail, tell me about your family."

The look of horror on your face must throw her, because she backpedals a bit. "Or not," she says, "if you don't want to."

"It's complicated. We're not a big happy family like yours. It's just my parents and my brother and me. And we're all cops, so there's that. As a kid, everything kind of focused around that, around being police officers one day. My brother Steve-he's eleven years older than me-and I were basically rookies-in-training for the most part. And Steve was always really good at it, he's kind of perfect. Their golden boy. And then there's me, and I'm okay, but I'm not Steve and I'm not breaking department records like my mom. So they never really knew what to do with me when I was a kid, and they're still not sure now."

She has a point about needing to slow down on the drinks, you realize. Because you've obviously had too much if you're spilling details about your childhood to someone who is still mostly a stranger. Even if she's already told you about the time she accidentally flashed the entire floor of her freshman dorm.

You lift your eyes up to her and she has this unidentifiable look on her face. It's not pity-you know that look pretty well by now-and it's not any other emotion you recognize, the ones you usually find staring back at you. It's not anger or annoyance, frustration or shame. It's not disappointment or resignation.

Unsure what to say, you shake your head to clear it and ask if she's up for another round. She looks down at her mostly-full glass and declines.

It strikes you then that you've been completely, entirely honest with this woman the entire evening, and she's still here with you. Still sitting across from you with a drink, listening to what you have to say and telling you about herself. And you're enjoying yourself, you really are. And you think she is too.

It's been forever since you've been on a first date but if you were a guy, or she was, that's what this would be. That's what this feels like, like two people with a mutual interest in each other feeling out the possibilities of getting to know one another better.

You must have been silent for too long because now she's looking at you with definite concern in her eyes.

"Gail," she asks, and reaches out across the table to gently place her hand on your arm, "are you okay?"

You want to tell her, you do. There is something in you aching to tell her all about the demons that chase you in the dark. You want to tell her about the fear and the guilt you carry every day in the set of your shoulders, about the nightmares that keep you awake. You want to tell her everything and let her help you keep your secrets, your shames.

The desire to let her in, to let her see everything, all your pieces, is powerfully strong.

And that scares you too.

* * *

You come back from the bathroom to find Holly settling your tab at the bar. And when you try to protest, she waves away your protest saying you can pay next time. She's made you drink another bottle of water after the last round, but you're definitely pretty drunk as you shrug yourself into your coat and wait for her at the door.

"So," she says as she pulls on her own jacket, "how are you getting home, want to share a cab?"

The thought makes your blood run cold, even with the alcohol swimming through your veins.

"No," you tell her, "I'm just going to walk. It's only a few blocks."

She looks at you sideways, and you shiver under her gaze. "Are you sure, Gail? It's late, and cold, and you had a lot to drink. Maybe we should get a cab."

You say no again, but more forcefully this time. She looks startled at the strength of your reply and you sigh. You avoided talking about it earlier, but after she's sat and drunk with you all night, after she's shared stories from her past with you and listened to you bitch about yours, you feel like you can talk to her about it.

"About a year ago," you start off, "I was working undercover to catch someone killing young women. We didn't know it at the time, but the suspect wasn't a john like we thought, but a cab driver. Turns out he would take the women-blonde prostitutes-back to their homes and then break in and abduct them. And one night after an undercover op, I got in his cab. Just needed to get home, you know. Didn't even think twice about it, no one did."

Holly grabbed your hand at some point, and the gentle squeeze she gives it helps you to finish the story. Even as she says "Gail," like she wants to give you an out, let you know you don't have to keep going, you know you can't stop. You need to tell her. You need her to know.

You give her hand a squeeze back and continue.

"I was staying at McNally's that night, and when someone knocked at the door I just opened it. He-Perik-he slammed the door into my face and I think I tried to fight him off. He injected me with something, some sedative, and the next thing I really remember is being tied to a table in a dark basement, and the sound of his shoes on the stairs. He kept me unconscious, so I don't remember much, but I do remember when he came down and yelled at me for being a cop. He dragged me up the stairs and there was another officer there, on the ground. Jerry. Jerry Barber. He'd come to interview the cab driver who had dropped me off, and somehow figured it all out. But Perik stabbed him and he was dying."

"Gail," Holly says again, her voice soft and full of compassion. But it doesn't make you recoil, not like the compassion from your fellow officers does. It doesn't make you feel ashamed, unworthy, weak, like Traci's.

Holly's compassion gives you the strength to finish.

"Come on," you say, and tug at Holly's hand, "it's cold. Walk me home while I finish?"

She nods, and you start to head back toward the apartment you share with Dov, grateful for Holly's steady, warm presence next to you.

"Jerry Barber was a hero, Holly. He died saving me. He was losing blood and strength, but somehow he managed to get his cell phone into Perik's pocket. And that's how they found me. Shoved into the trunk of Perik's car, tied up and taped up. I remember being pulled out of that trunk by Chris and Nick, and watching as Oliver and Dov shoved him to the ground and arrested him. They didn't tell me until the next day that Jerry had died."

You look up at the woman next to you, illuminated by the light of the cars passing and the streetlights above. "He was going to be married, Holly. He and Traci were engaged, and they were going to be married. And he died saving me from whatever Hell that madman had planned for me in that dark basement. From being raped and tortured and murdered and dumped like garbage in the woods somewhere."

You pause to take a deep, steadying breath. You don't often think about what could have happened. What would have happened if Jerry hadn't found you. What might have happened while you were unconscious. Your memory of your time in that basement is so foggy, only a few things remain clear. The sound of footsteps. The prick of a needle in your skin. The terror of being dragged up a flight of stairs. Of seeing Jerry's body. But the rest of it is all a blur, is all a dark fuzz in your mind. You have only the testimony of the doctors and nurses who patched you up, the negative results of the rape kit, the evidence of your own body to assure you that Perik never got the chance to do to you what he did to the others.

"Sometimes now the dark bothers me, or being alone. Sometimes I can't get in cabs because I'm afraid I might have a panic attack. I can push the feelings away for the most part, and especially when I'm in uniform. But when I got home tonight, the apartment was dark and empty, and I could hear those shoes in the back of my mind, coming closer and closer. The sound of the TV drowned it out for a while, but I called you because I didn't want to be alone with my memories tonight."

You stop in front of your apartment building. You can see lights in the living room, so Dov must be home now. Chloe too, probably.

"Hey," you say, "this is me. Thanks for the walk, and for listening. There aren't a lot of people I can talk with about this, you know? And I'm just ... I'm glad you blew off your friend tonight. I owe you."

Holly still looks a little speechless at what you've told her. To be honest, now that the walk and the fall evening cold have sobered you up a bit, you're shocked that you told her anything. But you don't regret it. It actually feels good, it feels like she's helped keep some of the demons at bay tonight.

She stands in front of you, and if this were a date this is the moment when one of you would lean forward with a kiss. But this isn't a date, and you were never one for sweet kisses goodbye at the door anyway. You were always more of a backseat make-out girl.

"Gail," she says, her hand still holding yours, "that was a terrible thing to have happen to you. And I'm glad you trusted me enough to tell me."

She squeezes your hand in hers again.

Everyone else had called you brave, and strong. Everybody else had whispered about how you would get past what had happened. That just made you feel like a victim, really. But having Holly listen, and having her hear what you were trying to say, that a terrible thing had happened and that you were trying to live, brokenly, through it? She's the first person who hasn't made you feel like the whole thing was your fault.

"Are you going to be alright getting upstairs," she asks.

You nod. You're better now, you feel a lot better.

"Okay, I'm going to grab that cab there," she says and points down the street, "and when I get home, I'll text you so you know that nothing has happened, okay?"

You nod again. You feel like you're all out of words now.

Holly raises her hand to hail the cab and then turns back toward you when it pulls over.

"Hey," she says, "thank you for tonight. I had fun-even if you're not an art gallery groupie. We should do it again."

"No problem," you answer back, looking over at the cab and committing the number to memory.

Before you know it, she's wrapped her arms around you and is holding you in a tight hug.

"Thank you, Gail," she says, "for trusting me. Really."

You try to pretend like you're annoyed, but the truth is, her arms around you feel good, right.

"Holly," you whisper loudly, "I'm not really a hugger."

"Oh, don't worry," she responds with a grin on her face, "I am. You'll get used to it."


End file.
